Friday, May 2, 2014

She Walks Over Me (Hole)

I was at a gallery opening last night with friends. It had been a long day, and I decided to go. Plus it was free. The place contained a cast of characters. One was a man with a Tropic appearance, accent from no where, and a claim to an important UN position. Another was an Asian woman who had a British accent making strangers swear pinkie promises. Then there was the man Robert, with the slicked back hair speaking to every woman in the place as if she were a party favor. He reminded me of Cotton Weaver from the Scream trilogy.

The two who stole the show were these female space aliens. Speaking some language that I have never heard, it sounded like a series of screeches and squawks. It is probably Russian or some Eastern Euro thing, but they were speaking really loudly like angry birds. They had all of Robert's attention, because they were just as bizarre as he was. Anyway, the one had a lot of makeup on her face. It was a bizarre, gold bronze. Her eyes had pounds and pounds of dark makeup, and the heavy lashes were so big her eyelids must have had superhuman strength. Easily six feet tall as was, she wore these bizarre clear sparking space boots and stood in them. Weighing sixty pounds, a gold dress, probably from Saturn where she was Queen, hung off of her body. She had a companion with her, more Earthly looking but equally as odd. We questioned whether the woman had human skin underneath the makeup because it was so heavy. Then I figured nah, it had long since rotted off and this was all that remained.

I wouldn't have minded this bizarre creature but she kept giving me this eye as if she was better of me. Yes, me, woman of human weight was somehow inferior to her cosmetic abortion. It felt like junior high all over again. I talked to some men, and they talked to me. It was a fun exchange, especially after the disappointing spring fling I had with Mr. Idiot.

Then I began talking to this one woman. She either had really perky boobs or had some serious work done up top. And it looked like she had thigh implants, too. She seemed nice, but you can always tell a surgically enhanced body. We began to talk about ourselves and what we did. I mentioned my puppets, my writing, ad my DVD. I really hate to talk about my work with strangers unless they know me.

I handed the woman my post card and this is how the exchange went:

Woman: I know that puppet. She's been on TV. She's really funny.

Me: Thanks. She's more successful than I am.

Woman: Yes she is. You should be nice to her. Wow, I knew that puppet looked familiar.

I didn't know what was worse, the fact that May Wilson is a slut that sleeps her way to the top, is an ungrateful bitch that always insults me, or that she gets all the credit. Worst part, it was her birthday and she was celebrating. Yeah, she forgot her underwear again. Oh, and it's crazy how she's the thing people remember and not me. But yeah, May Wilson.

As this was happening, the alien woman with too much makeup looked my way. They no longer felt like the most beautiful, self-important people in the room. With a slight, blank stare I could tell I stole their thunder. Yeah, I didn't have a metal dress stolen from the closet of some Star Wars sexpot. Sure, I had a moderate amount of makeup on. Still, they took all this time and effort to doll themselves up and I still came up better and more important. And then I got out my puppet sidekick Sonny Jones and he began entertaining people. Sonny made their facebook page, too. And we got a photo of ourselves as a duo while everyone else posed in groups. The alien women weren't so lucky.

At the end of the night we made fun of the alien women as they walked behind us, retreating to their spaceship.

Then I realized my feet hurt so much and I had a giant blister and would be unable to walk. My friend gave me her flats. Then I realized getting blisters, wearing flats, and having friends meant I was a human being. For better or for worse,  whether my slut puppet steals my thunder or I have a stare down with aliens from another planet it is what it is.

Maybe someday the strange creatures with too much makeup might get to be so lucky.

I Came, I Saw, I Sang: Memoirs of a Singing Telegram Delivery Girl
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